Chapter 5: The Kitchen

"Hold still," Winslow said, "or I'll sew your thumb to your wrist."

"You're not sewing anything."

"Three stitches. It's deep."

"You have a first-aid kit in the kitchen drawer."

"I have a field kit in every drawer in this house."

He had cleared my father's marble island and spread a clean towel.

A curved needle lay in a sealed packet beside it.

It was nine at night and the glass room was black.

The lamps over the stove made a small gold circle with the two of us inside it.

I sat on a stool with my right hand in his.

His hands were broad and warm, with a long old scar across the left knuckles.

I had known those hands for four years.

I had never once let myself look at them.

"Do you do this often?" I said.

"Stitch my employers?"

"I thought I was your co-trustee."

"You are." He bent over my palm. "That's why I'm allowed to tell you to hold still."

The needle went in.

I hissed through my teeth, and he waited for exactly as long as I needed without being asked.

"You brought me a file," I said, to have something to say. "Fourteen months ago. The first week."

"I did."

"You could have just told me. You could have said it in the hall."

"You were my boss's daughter and my co-trustee," Winslow said.

"I didn't want to say it out loud. I brought paper, so you could burn it, frame it, or never open it."

"I opened it."

"I know. You called me in and asked me what I'd do."

"And you said?"

"That I'd already have left."

"I didn't."

"I know." The second stitch went through. "You told me that you wanted to see what he'd do with fourteen months to be honest."

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